


To Drown in a Puddle

by fallbeforeifly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Cage Trauma, Hallucination Lucifer (Supernatural) | Hallucifer, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Protective Dean Winchester, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:30:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallbeforeifly/pseuds/fallbeforeifly
Summary: Showering shouldn't be this difficult.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 166





	To Drown in a Puddle

“Alright dude, you’re totally first up for a shower. Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re friggin’ gross right now.”

Sam rolls his eyes as he closes the door to the motel room, trying to ignore the sickening squelching noise that comes from his shirt as the fabric brushes against itself. “What, you think I’m gonna argue that?”

Dean sits down on the edge of the closest bed, bending down to untie his boots. “No, like, a serious shower. Like deep scrubbing and exfoliating type shit. Because that? That’s just nasty.” He kicks a boot across the room, smirking at the dull thud as it hits the burnt orange wall. “And then when you’re done, we’re gonna burn everything you had on today. Shoes too. And probably under

The younger Winchester huffs out a breath through his nose, glancing down at his shoes and trying to ignore his discolored shirt, blood red and a horrible yellow-green he doesn’t even want to think about. “Dude, no way. You know how hard it is to find shirts that actually fit me?”

“Yeah, I know. Damn Sasquatch. But what’re you gonna do, try to wash it out?”

“Kinda what washing machines are for, Dean.”

“Gonna infect all your clothes with that shit.” Dean gives his brother a wide berth as he heads to the mini fridge, pulling out a beer. “Whatever, do what you want. Just don’t get any ‘bodily fluids’ on my toothbrush or anything.”

“Would serve you right,” Sam snorts, heading to the bathroom. “‘Just hold her down, Sam; I’ll gank her.’ Screw you.”

“Hey! That’s totally not my fault; how was I supposed to know she’d explode all over you!?”

Sam toes open the bathroom door, turning to give his brother a glare. “It’s a witch, Dean. That’s what they do.”

The other Hunter gives a dismissive wave as he flops down on his chosen bed, turning on the TV. “Yeah, well, she’s dead, I killed her; I call that a good job.”

Sam rolls his eyes again- he’s surprised they haven’t gotten stuck like that, considering his idiot of a brother- and kicks the bathroom door shut, ignoring Dean’s shout of “I’m serious about my toothbrush!”

_ If Dean had mentioned we were hunting a witch, I would’ve worn a different shirt, _ Sam thinks bitterly, starting to peel off his ruined clothes. The jeans aren’t such a bad thing- he’s got a couple pairs of those to spare. But it was, unfortunately, his favorite shirt. And while he’s not necessarily the germ-freak his brother tends to be, there’s got to be some serious nastiness on his clothes. Damn witches.

Sam leaves his boots by the door and kicks the rest of his clothes into a pile by the toilet. He doesn’t touch anything else before he washes his hands, cringing slightly at the sort of off-yellow color the water turns. With his hands clean, Sam leans over the edge of the tub and turns on the water, pushing in the button on the spout to make sure it doesn’t turn on the showerhead just yet. After years of living in these shitty motels, Sam has certain superstitions he lives by- like the water gets warmer faster if he leaves it on the tub spout first.

Which leaves him with nothing to do while he waits for the water to get warm. It’ll probably take at least five minutes, based on experience. And five minutes should be enough time to try and scrub the stains out of his shirt. The least he can do is try to salvage it, and if it doesn’t work, then he’ll consent to Dean’s option of purification by fire.

He pointedly moves his brother’s toothbrush to the back of the grimy toilet- because two can play at being an obnoxious asshole- before picking up his disgusting shirt. It’s nearly sopping with whatever the hell that witch spewed in her death throes, and Sam doesn’t even want to think about what must be left on his skin.

The water in the sink is cold, but Sam ignores it as he tries to rub out the nastiness in his shirt. The water running off his shirt is that same nasty shade of off-yellow, tinged with hints of red as well. Sam pulls the motel brand soap out of its plastic packaging and uses that to scrub out the stains, but it’s really not doing much of anything.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s coming out, Sammy…”

Sam jumps in surprise, slamming his hand into the faucet. He hisses in pain, looking up at his reflection in the mirror. And then past it, to where Lucifer stands with a smirk on his face.

Yeah, no way. Hell no, not when he’s about to take a shower.

“What’s the matter, Sam? Personally, I think you could use the company. Relax a little.”

Sam watches the color drain out of his own face, quickly jamming his thumb into the shiny scar on his left palm. The Devil gives a dramatic roll of his eyes and flips the bird before flickering out of existence, and Sam lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

The hand trick’s been working, sure, but not for long enough. In fact, the amount of time it’s been keeping Lucifer away has gotten shorter and shorter, and it makes Sam’s chest seize up to think that at some point, it’s not going to do a damn thing. And then he’s really going to be in some deep shit…

But that’s too much to think about right now. Currently, he needs to focus on how he’s slowly wasting the amount of time he can shower without Lucifer doing… Well, whatever. Something obnoxious that Sam  _ definitely _ does  _ not  _ want to deal with naked. The shirt will still be there when he gets out.

Sam steps over the edge of the tub, feeling the warmth of the water on his feet, and switches it to spray out of the showerhead instead. This place actually has decent water pressure, for once, and he gives a quiet sigh as the water pounds against his aching shoulders. 

He wastes no time in getting clean, scrubbing all traces of the witch out of his skin. There’s globs of unknown substance stuck in his hair too, which is disgusting and takes a fairly significant amount of time and effort to get out. But once he’s finally clean, he feels a hell of a lot better. He hadn’t even realized he wasn’t feeling great in the first place. 

The water is still hot, still pumping strong through the pipes, so Sam allows himself to just take a second and enjoy it. It’s not often he gets little moments like these. And if the hot water runs out, well, serves Dean right. His muscles slowly start to unwind, and he rolls his head around to stretch out his unknowingly tight neck muscles. Lucifer was right; he really did need to relax, and a hot shower is just about as close as he’s ever going to get to true relaxation. At least until they clean up this whole Leviathan shit storm. And then whatever world-ending crisis comes next.

Once upon a time, Sam wouldn’t have had such a pessimistic view of the future. He would’ve believed that he and Dean would beat this threat and then maybe return to some sense of normalcy. But now, he knows better. They’ve never once caught a break. They kill Yellow Eyes, but then they have to save Dean from Hell. Dean comes back from Hell, but then they have to stop the apocalypse. They- No, Sam tries to stop the apocalypse- stupidly, stubbornly, all on his own- and frees Lucifer from Hell, and-

The water suddenly turns icy cold, like a rainshower of needles. Sam startles, gives a grunt of shock, and stumbles backwards in the shower. Right into another body with frigid skin. Sam’s body reacts with panic, choking him before he can even figure out who the hell is behind him, before he can register the freezing arms wrapping around him, the icy hands splaying across his stomach. 

“You were thinking about me, weren’t you?”

“No-!” The word dies halfway out of Sam’s mouth, clamped off by sheer overwhelming panic, shivers crawling up his spine and across his skin. It’s cold, too cold, too  _ familiar _ , and his feet slip across the tub floor as he tries to pry himself out of the freezing grip.

“Nah ah, Sammy.” Lucifer’s voice is right next to his ear, cold breath against his bare shoulder, and Sam shudders but ultimately falls still with a hiss of pain as fingernails like razor blades dig into his abdomen. “You know better than to fight  _ me. _ How many times do you actually win, anyways?”

Sam bites back a whine of pain and swallows hard against the fear constricting his chest, the dizziness, the instinct screaming at him to either run or submit because fighting isn’t going to do shit, never has, never will. But that doesn’t stop him. He’s been out too long, had control over himself for too long, and he tries shoving at the arms wrapped around him, restricting him, keeping him trapped, but the Devil doesn’t even loosen his grip a bit, giving a warning growl that makes Sam’s spine crawl.

“Now, now, Sam. That’s no way to treat your old bunk buddy. It’s just  _ me _ .” Lucifer’s icy lips press against his shoulder, and Sam has never wanted so badly to be able to get out of his meatsuit, to be able to do anything at all, to get this to  _ stop. _

There’s a sharp knock on the door, and Sam nearly jumps out of his skin, only held down by the archangel’s hands.

“Sammy? You alright in there? You drop the soap or something?”

The mirth is obvious in Dean’s voice, mimicked by Lucifer’s low chuckle.

“Now there’s an idea, Sammy. We both know how much you’d like that, hmm? Guess big brother knows too, you dirty little thing...” 

Those freezing hands dip lower, groping at him, and Sam can’t stop a miserable whimper, trying uselessly to tuck his hips back and away and discovering just how horrifyingly naked and  _ aroused _ the Devil is behind him. The panic claws at his throat, makes everything spotty and cloudy and far away and this can’t be happening, not again, he got out, he’s topside, and he nearly misses the second knock on the bathroom door.

“Sam?” Dean raps on the door again, more insistent this time, and there’s blatant concern in his voice. “Sam, you okay?”

No, no he’s not, and the truth of just how bad this is threatens to drown Sam alive. In the shower, with Lucifer, who’ll do God-knows-what if Sam gets lost in his panic. 

For half a moment, Sam considers calling out. Shouting at Dean that no, he’s not okay, help me, because he knows Dean will bust the door in right away and come over to help him, to save him, just like he always does.

“Really, Sam?” The Devil is absolutely unimpressed, fingernails like claws digging into his inner thigh, and Sam chokes on a moan of pain, struggling to shift those freezing hands away from his crotch, pulling at Lucifer like it’ll do a damn thing. “Begging for help? Oh yeah, because that’s worked before, right?”

Sam’s shoulders tense up with the remembrance of that statement, of the hours, days,  _ years _ spent screaming himself hoarse, like anyone could hear him in the darkest depths of Hell, like anyone would be able to save him. 

“What are you gonna tell him, huh?” Lucifer sneers. “What’s Saint  _ Dean _ going to do?” He laughs, low and dangerous, and Sam’s skin crawls before the Devil switches the pitch of his voice, higher and girly and shrieky. “‘Dean, Dean! Help me! Help me, please! Mean ol’ Satan won’t let me shower in peace! I need big, strong  _ Dean _ to come save me!’” His voice goes back to normal, frigid breath on the shell of Sam’s ear, sending chills down the younger Winchester’s spine. “You can’t do anything on your own, can you? Can’t even shower without needing someone to save you.”

Lucifer laughs again, and Sam only realizes he’s trembling when his teeth knock together, a combination of the enveloping cold and the hysterical horror threatening to drag him under because Lucifer’s right. What the hell can Dean do, what can anyone do against the fucking  _ Devil _ and-

_ He’s not real _ .

The thought hits him like a freight train, barrelling through the overwhelming panic in his mind. It’s not  _ Lucifer _ , it’s just a hallucination. And Sam’s been dealing with those, he can get Lucifer gone just long enough to-

He reaches for his left hand, for the stone his sanity is built on, right as a painfully cold hand wraps around his wrist and yanks his hand away. Lucifer’s free hand gently strokes his chest, a sharp contrast, as the Devil clicks his tongue in disdain.

“C’mon, Sammy. Don’t be a spoil sport. You know that’s not going to do anything anyways.”

Sam only realizes he’s hyperventilating when his vision starts to blacken over, and he screws his eyes shut, trying to focus on his breathing and the ground beneath his feet and not the hands grabbing at him and the cold, cold, cold, cold, cold-

“Sam!” Dean rams his knuckles against the door again, and Sam jumps in shock, eyes flying open and fixing on a broken tile in the wall. “Sam, you’ve got five seconds to answer me before I’m coming in there.”

Lucifer gives another snarl, and Sam’s stomach seems to freeze over with expectation, trepidation, because that can’t mean anything good oh fuck, fuck no, no, no-

“Better say something, Sam. You don’t want him coming in here.”

No, he definitely doesn’t, doesn’t want to see the disgust and fear on Dean’s face when he realizes this is just another fucking hallucination that Sam can’t get a handle on, but more than that, he doesn’t want to know what Lucifer’s unspoken ‘or else’ will entail, what the Devil will do to him if he doesn’t do what he’s told, follow orders.

“I… I’m fine, Dean.” It’s small, obviously panicked, and Sam knows right away that it’s not enough.

“... You sure about that?” 

Lucifer suddenly relinquishes his hold, and Sam springs forward on instinct as soon as those hands leave him, putting as much distance between himself and the Devil as possible, charging through the stream of water, cold like nails. He flattens himself against the far wall of the shower, calves crammed against the tub faucet, arms wrapped around himself for warmth like it’ll help at all. Sam stares at Lucifer, at his  _ hallucination, a fucking hallucination, come on Sam, get it together-! _

And Lucifer glares at him, eyes narrowed with obvious malice, a promise of pain that doesn’t need to be set to words. “Try that again, Sammy, but more convincing…”

Sam doesn’t have to be told twice, clearing his throat as best he can as he turns the water off, shivering as tiny droplets of unnatural freaking cold drip onto his shoulder. He clenches his eyes shut, finally able to force down a tiny amount of the panic now that he isn’t being  _ touched _ , calming his breathing down to something that might be able to pass as normal- if he’d just finished running a marathon, maybe.

“Yeah… Yeah, Dean, I’m sure. I’m okay.”

God, what a lie, and Sam regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. But when he peels his eyes open, Lucifer is looking at him with something that might pass for pride, and it simultaneously steadys him and amps his terror up tenfold. He quickly averts his gaze, staring down at his bare feet, the skin turned white from the chill of the water. 

“Alright.” It’s hesitant, but Sam lets out a sigh of relief as Dean surrenders. “Don’t waste all the hot water, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sam wants to say that he hasn’t, wants to warn his brother about the needles of cold that come from the showerhead, that dig into his shoulder, but he can feel Lucifer’s eyes boring into his chest, so he stays silent. He stays silent and listens to the sound of his brother’s retreating footsteps, abandoning him to the Devil. 

No, not the Devil- it’s not real, he’s not real, it’s just a hallucination, not real. But Sam can’t do anything more than think about gripping his scarred hand before Lucifer is back in his personal space, tangling their fingers together and slamming Sam’s left arm against the shower wall, towering over the Hunter as he shrinks and cowers.

And then Lucifer is on top of him, lips like ice cubes pressed against Sam’s, cold and wet and slimy pressing into the shocked gape of his mouth. The Devil’s free hand is roaming again, lower and lower, and he’s pressed right up against Sam’s body, invading him, and Sam feels like he’s going to choke on his own throat. 

He does the only thing he can and yanks his hand free of Lucifer’s grasp, shoves the archangel backward, tries to ignore the spit, not his spit, that’s smeared across his lips. Sam still feels like he can’t breathe, even with the return of his personal space, eyes wide with panic as he tries to remember how to pull air into his lungs. 

But then Lucifer’s eyes go red, glowing like coals, his face twisting with fury. And Sam can feel his heart skip a beat before going double time, thrashing against his rib cage in an attempt to flee, abandon his body to whatever’s coming next. Sam wants to run too, wants to get out, but he’s absolutely frozen. His legs won’t move and his mind is running so fast, it’s not even processing, just a blank blur of nondescript fear. 

“Oh Sammy… You shouldn’t have done that.”

Lucifer lunges forward, and Sam can’t think fast enough to get out of the way. Freezing fingers curl into his hair, and a cry of pain tears its way from his throat as he’s thrown to the bottom of the bathtub, skull thudding against the hard plastic. Sam instinctively moves to curl himself up, get as small as possible, get less skin exposed, but the Devil is faster, straddling his hips and gripping Sam’s chin in his fingers.

“You know better than to say no to me. Or maybe you need a reminder?”

Sam jerks away from the cold fingers on his face, a noise like a frightened animal leaving his lips. No, no, no, no, he doesn’t need a reminder, how could he forget, forget his defiance in the Cage and the way Lucifer literally tore the fight out of him, no, it’s not real, it’s not real, it can’t be-

Except fingernails, claws dig into his skin, and a very real, ice cold agony rips through him as the Devil shreds open his chest. Sam screams, loud and raw, thrashing against the archangel on top of him, choking on his own hysteria at the blood spraying against the off-white of the tub. Lucifer has the dark black-red of Sam’s blood all the way up to his elbows, splattered against his chest, and he looks so pleased and Sam can taste bile in the back of his throat.

“You’re mine, Sammy.” Lucifer pulls a hand out of Sam’s gaping chest, cupping the Hunter’s cheek in a false softness, smearing blood across his skin. Sam gags at the overwhelming stench of iron, lungs catching and refusing to move against the throbbing pain like ocean waves. “All mine. You were made for this.” The Devil leaves a crimson streak as his hand trails down Sam’s neck, pointedly rolling his hips, and Sam can’t find the strength to even try to push him off. “Made for whatever I want. That’s what you were designed for, since the beginning of time. You really thought you could change that? Thought you could get away from me? Tell me ‘no?’”

Sam shakes his head, feet slipping uselessly on the smooth floor of the tub, gasping against the pain that’s reached just this side of overwhelming now that Lucifer isn’t making it worse. No, he doesn’t think he can change this, doesn’t think he can get away, doesn’t think Lucifer will listen to his protests, much less honor them. But mostly, he doesn’t want to think about how much worse this can get, about what will happen if the archangel isn’t appeased.

And apparently it’s the wrong answer- he’s forgotten the rules of the Cage, forgotten the right answers, but he thinks that maybe Lucifer is too pissed off to follow his normal habits even if Sam could think straight. 

“Again with the no?” 

Sam whimpers at that tense anger in the Devil’s voice, but it gives way to a sharp scream as Lucifer plunges his hands back into the human’s chest cavity, freezing fingers burning him alive. Sam screws his eyes shut and writhes against the pain, tries to back himself away, but there’s nowhere to go, and he can hear screaming and shouting but it’s all so far away and drowned out by the deafening, surrounding pain that shoots up his chest.

Sam’s not even sure what’s coming out of his mouth, what words he’s using to beg the Devil to stop- like he thinks it’ll do something, he knows it won’t, it never has and never will. But whatever it is, it’s wrong, not helping, not good, and it’s horrifyingly familiar in the most uncomfortable way when those frigid hands wrap around something inside of him and  _ pull _ .

Lucifer tears something out of him, and it’s cold and white hot and hurts more than Sam can put words to. Whatever Lucifer’s pulling on suddenly gives way in an explosion of pain, and he lets loose something between a shriek and a sob, his throat raw with the sound.

Sam can’t think through the agony that somehow got so much worse than he can remember, can’t feel anything but the throbbing of his body in time with his swift heartbeat and his ragged pants. There’s too much pain to hear, to think, but he definitely feels it when cold and slick grips his jaw and pulls.

The human’s eyes fly open to be met with the Devil’s face right above him, one icy hand yanking on his jaw and the other bathed in blood with a handful of horrific red, gore dripping out between his fingers. Sam gags, impulsively fighting against the hand on his face, fingers in his mouth, the Devil’s smirk and petrifying laugh that makes his white hot pain run suddenly cold with fear. 

“Don’t like the taste of me, Sammy? How about this?”

There’s nothing to do but scream as Lucifer brings his other hand closer, and Sam’s mouth is suddenly full of blood and iron and horrifyingly gummy, rubbery tissue that slides down his throat and makes him gag, and his stomach seizes up and bile burns his throat and he can’t even puke around the slickness in his mouth and he hurts like a bomb just went off inside of him and Lucifer’s just laughing and pulling out ropes of blood and organs and drenching himself in blood and there’s too much noise, too much pain, too much vomit in his mouth, too much, too much, too much...

Something warm is on his arm. Squeezing, clenched around his bicep, and it somehow cuts through the rolling pain, the darkness. Sam can’t even remember the last time he felt something warm, something besides the archangel’s freezing touches and the burning chill of pain. It’s curiosity more than anything that makes him peel open his eyes. He has to blink away tears- when was he crying?- to see clearly what’s so warm, but then his eyes focus on a hand. A hand? Sam squeezes his eyes shut tight in an attempt to get his brain to catch up, to figure it out.

“Sam? Sammy, come on man, say something. Christ, come on, please. Just look at me.”

Everything hits all at once, and Sam’s eyes fly open. His brother’s worried face hovers right above him, pale and pleading and pinched with worry, accompanied by this god-awful smell like something just died, so bad he can taste it on his tongue alongside the remnants of... And he’s so cold, oh God he’s cold, every inch of his skin is shivering and it pulls a choked noise of half-panic out of the younger’s lips-

“Whoa, whoa, Sammy, Sammy!” The hand tightens around his arm, shaking him slightly, and Sam hasn’t heard Dean sound that freaked in years, decades maybe. “Easy, come on, just say something.”

Sam shifts slightly, draws his legs up so his knees are crammed against the side of the tub, so he can curl himself around the source of  _ warm _ on his arm. “Dean…” He’s a little shocked to notice how hoarse he sounds, to feel the slimy, chalky burn on his tongue, and everything feels so fake, detached.

Dean’s hand loosens its grip enough to no longer edge on painful, and just the not-cold of it is enough to clear some of the fuzz from Sam’s mind. He realizes a little belatedly that he’s not in as much pain as he should be, and when he looks down, his chest is whole and decidedly not red. There’s no blood, no torn skin, nothing but leftover shower water and vomit. Which is definitely his, definitely explains the horrible smell, and Sam nearly gags when it starts to dribble down his chest as he sits up.

“Hey, easy. Easy, Sam.” Dean reaches over, steadies his brother with two warm hands on his shoulders, and Sam nearly retches again when he sees Dean’s palm land in some of his sick. But the older Winchester doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes focused only on Sam and nothing else.

It’s a delayed realization, but Lucifer is gone, Sam notices. Never was here to begin with, couldn’t possibly be in the bathroom of some shady motel, and Sam… Sam sags with the knowledge, any little bit of energy sucked out of him like a vacuum. It felt so real, so unbelievably real and horrifically familiar. He slumps against the grimy tub, and Dean is right there to catch him, to lean him against the edge so he doesn’t completely slip into the tepid- not freezing- water and his own sick.

“Sammy?” His voice is tight, thick with anxiety, and that’s the emotion that cuts through to Sam. “You back with me, Sam?”

Sam manages to raise his head enough to make eye contact, to read the distress and concern in his brother’s eyes, and he nods because he’s not entirely sure another sound would come out right now with the way his throat feels like barbed wire. But that little bit of response has Dean sighing, relaxing with relief.

“Shit. Okay, good. Thank fuck.” Dean gives his shoulder another squeeze before he stands up, a little stiff and awkward. “Gonna get you water, okay?”

Sam’s pretty sure that’s not a comment that requires a verbal response, so he doesn’t bother trying, lethargically tracking Dean’s progress as he moves over to the sink. It wasn’t real. That idea is still sinking its way into his head. Lucifer was never here, not in this motel room, not in this bathroom. But Sam still can’t convince himself of that, because he hasn’t felt pain like that, hasn’t had his body torn open, organs removed like that, since he was in the Cage, since Lucifer had twenty-four-seven access to him and took full advantage of it.

“Sam?” Warm skin touches his cheek, and it startles Sam back into the present moment, into Dean’s furrowed eyebrows and clenched jaw and chewed lips. “You still with me, man?”

Sam nods again and makes a weak attempt to pull his head off the edge of the tub. “Yeah… I‘m good.” He cringes slightly at the gravely, raw feeling in his throat that definitely shows up in his voice. “Sorry…”

Dean gives a curt nod in acknowledgement and presses a plastic cup into Sam’s hand. “Here. Swish and spit.” He sets his hand- Sam never realized how heated his brother’s hands are- on the younger’s back, right between his shoulder blades to help Sam sit up a little more. Sam does as he’s told and pours some of the blessedly lukewarm water into his mouth, swishing it around before spitting it towards the drain. It takes some of the acidic, irony taste from his mouth, but it comes out tinged pink.

Pink with blood, blood he can still taste in his mouth, slipping down his throat and choking him, forced in by freezing fingers and a bruising grip and a horrible laugh that rings in his ears and turns his spine to ice-

“Sam!” Dean’s voice, sharp with concern, cuts through Sam’s racing thoughts, the hand on his shoulder grounding him. “Stay focused, man. You gotta stay focused, stay here, right here and now with me, alright?”

Sam manages some sort of eye contact and a nod, panicked gaze searching past his brother to the rest of the room, because if there was blood, then some part of this was real, he didn’t imagine the whole thing and Lucifer has to be here, just out of sight. Dean squeezes his shoulder harder and shifts to get back into Sam’s line of sight.

“Hey. C’mon, Sammy, you gotta work with me here, alright? You’re scarin’ the shit outta me.”

He really doesn’t know how to respond to that; he’s scaring the shit out of himself, so he can’t imagine how Dean feels. But Sam clears his throat- clears the blood and the gore and the slime, he can still feel it, oh God- and throws his attention into focusing on Dean. Dean, with his warm hands and his sure touches and his worried looks Sam knows too well. Dean, who is definitely, absolutely, one-hundred-percent real and here. There’s nothing ambiguous about that, no second-guessing- mostly because if he starts questioning that, questioning  _ Dean _ , everything is going to crumble apart. 

Dean looks like he’s torn halfway between wanting to cry and needing to break something, but the return of Sam’s eye contact has him calming just slightly, just enough that Sam notices the slight break in tension in his shoulders, the way he searches Sam like he’ll find some sort of solution that doesn’t exist. Like there’s some sort of explanation for the way Sam can taste and feel and  _ remember _ but Lucifer should be a million miles away in the darkest depths of Hell. 

“Open up, Sammy.” The younger Winchester flinches slightly at the wording, staring up at his brother. But it has to be Dean. The Devil isn’t capable of that expression, of warmth and caring and concern that reaches his eyes. “Just wanna make sure you didn’t bite off your tongue or somethin’, okay?”

Dean’s probably just making a joke, trying to lighten the mood, but Sam thinks it’s probably a fair point. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s bitten off his tongue, done serious damage to the inside of his mouth from a vain attempt to stop his screams. But it might be the first time Dean’s ever seen something like that, seen a mouth full of blood, seen chunks of bloody flesh stuck in the crevices of another person’s teeth.

There’s that hand on his cheek again, warm and patting for attention. “Sam. Come on, you gotta stay focused.” Dean sounds like he’s almost choking on his words, worry starving him of a normal voice, and Sam forces himself to make eye contact and open his mouth.

Sam expects to see horror and nausea on his brother’s face, but Dean just looks relieved, moving his hand down to squeeze Sam’s shoulder. “You’re good. Probably just bit your cheek or somethin’.” He stands, but only to rearrange himself and sit on the edge of the tub. “You gotta breathe, Sammy. Calm down. You’re safe, I promise.”

Only when Dean points it out does Sam realize he hasn’t taken anything much besides shallow gasps, and that accounts for a significant amount of his lightheadedness, considering he isn’t about to pass out from non-existent blood loss. Except he’s not entirely sure he can take a deep breath, not with the way his lungs refuse to cooperate, restricted like somebody’s tied a rubber band around his chest and keeps pulling harder, harder, trying to choke him out in the most uncomfortable way possible, and who could blame him- he certainly couldn’t breathe with Lucifer on top of him, tearing him open, pulling and jabbing and ripping and choking him on his own intestines-

“Breathe, Sammy. You can do it.”

Sam sucks in a breath through his nose and chokes on it, leaning into Dean’s hand on his shoulder because he’s not really sure what else to do. But Dean somehow seems to know, with that big brother sixth sense he’s always had, and he grips Sam harder, uses his other hand to rub soothing circles into the younger’s tense shoulders. 

“Easy, Sam. Just breathe. Focus on that. Okay?”

So he does. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breath, on the heaving of his lungs as they struggle to keep up with his body’s demand for oxygen. Numbers pop into his head, some suggestion from an article he read once upon a time on how to regulate breathing. In through the mouth for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. 

Except he can’t manage to hold his breath for that long, can’t get enough air into his lungs in just four seconds of shaky wheezing, can’t seem to stop the sharp inhales of too much air in not enough time.

“Sammy, c’mon.” 

It doesn’t sound like Dean actually intended for his words to be heard, but Sam is all too aware of the pleading note to his voice, the slight tremble to his brother’s fingers as they travel back through his damp hair. Little droplets of water make their way down his skin, delicate and itchy and cold, but Sam closes his eyes and throws his focus to the warmth instead. On Dean’s grounding hand on his shoulder, the way the older man has purposely loudened his breathing to give Sam some idea of what he’s supposed to be doing. 

So Sam does what he’s done all his life and throws himself into copying Dean. Into mimicking his even breaths, his relative calmness, the steadiness of the hand moving through his hair in time with their breaths. 

Dean keeps up a soft litany of words, quiet little meaningless nothings probably for his own comfort as much as Sam’s. “That’s it,” and “There you go,” and “I’ve got you,” and “Gonna be okay, Sammy.”

It takes a while, but his lungs don’t feel like tight elastic anymore, and he doesn’t feel quite as frozen in place in the bottom of the tub. The heaviness of exhaustion is still there, but Sam can fight though it just enough to move his arm and grasp Dean’s wrist, squeezing gently.

The elder Winchester lets out a heavy sigh and briefly tightens his grip on Sam’s shoulder before he pulls back. Sam throws his eyes open to stare after his brother, quiet panic unspoken, but Dean leaves his other hand close enough so his fingers can graze Sam’s shoulder as he leans to turn on the bathtub.

“Gonna get you cleaned up, okay? That’s all.”

Water thunders out of the spicket, and Sam manages a nod, watching Dean’s hands as they pick up the cup from earlier, move over and fill it with water, move back and dump it over the sick on his skin.

The word “no” chokes and dies on his tongue as cold just this side of needles spreads over his chest, and Sam throws himself backwards, knees knocking against the sides of the tub as his bare feet scrabble against slick plastic. But he can’t lose himself any further than that because warm hands are on his shoulders, on his chest, on his cheek, Dean’s voice sharp against his panic.

“Hey, hey! Sammy, it’s okay! It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, Sam, you’re good. It’s okay, we can wait, hang on.” There’s a hollow thunk as the plastic cup gets discarded towards the other end of the tub, and Sam winds his hand into his brother’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning, pulls himself as close to Dean as he can manage.

Sam knows he’s shaking, knows he’s wet, knows this has to be uncomfortable, but Dean just wraps warm arms around him despite the awkwardness of the angle and the tub between them. He just lets Sam bury his face into his chest and soak the front of his shirt and rubs heated hands up and down Sam’s bare arms.

“You’re alright Sammy, it’s okay. We’ll wait for it to warm up, yeah? Should’ve checked first; damn motels always take a year to heat up, right?”

Sam knows his brother is searching for a response, trying to draw interaction from him, but his chest still tingles with the cold he’s painfully accustomed to, cold like the hands that won’t stop  _ touching _ , won’t give him a moment of peace in this body that doesn’t even belong to him, has always belonged to the Devil, has been Lucifer’s toy for longer than he’s even been alive-

“Whoa, whoa, c’mon Sam, don’t check out on me. It’s just me- just Dean. Just you and me. Just, just focus on me, alright? Focus on my voice. Breathe with me, okay?” Dean’s voice grounds him, steady and low and comforting, pulling him out of his own head and back into the current moment. Focus on Dean. He can do that. 

Sam latches on, gluing his attention to his older brother. To the steady rise and fall of the warm chest underneath him, the slightly damp fabric of a well-worn flannel. To those warm, gentle hands on his arm, combing back through his hair, rubbing the base of his neck, hands he knows better than his own. To the worried look on Dean’s face, concern etched into his eyes, world-weary and bone-deep exhaustion written all over his features.

“You still with me, Sammy?”

The younger Winchester nods weakly, watching some of the tension bleed off of his brother’s face.

“Okay. Alright, good.” Dean gives a short nod, gently cupping Sam’s cheek, letting his touch linger in a rare moment. “Water’s probably warm now. You gonna be okay?”

All Sam can do is give a nod, finally deciding he’s too tired to bother holding himself up correctly. Especially when Dean is right here to lean on, warm and sure and  _ real _ beyond doubt.

“Gonna need a verbal answer from you. Please? So I know you’re not just nodding?” Dean shifts him, tilts his head back a little to look into his face. “Sammy?”

“S’okay, Dean,” Sam mumbles through the rawness in his throat, generating enough effort to squeeze his brother’s wrist. “M’sorry.”

Dean shakes his head, holds Sam’s face in both hands and runs his thumb across the younger’s cheek. “Hey, don’t. Okay? You’re my little brother. It’s okay.”

Sam wants to say that it’s not. That none of this is okay, hasn’t been for quite some time. That Dean shouldn’t have to do this, should’ve have to talk him down from taking a damn  _ shower _ . But honestly, he’s too tired to say anything, worn and pained and exhausted to his very core. Plus Dean is his big brother. And if he says it’s okay, then it’ll be okay.

Dean moves underneath him, stretches back out to test the temperature of the water, and Sam allows himself to slump back down a little bit, lay against the bottom of the tub with his head on the side. 

“Tell me if this is warm enough, okay?” Warm water dribbles over the back of his hand, warm enough that the rest of him gives an involuntary shiver from the temperature difference. Sam gives a weak nod, probably too small for anyone else to have noticed, but Dean knows, just like he always does, and squeezes his shoulder. “Alright, Sammy. Gonna take care of you. Gonna wash you off then get you someplace warmer, yeah? Sound like a plan?”

Dean talks his way through it, and Sam knows it’s supposed to be for his benefit, but he’s too tired to focus on his brother’s verbal comforts, too drained to give any kind of response. The blessedly warm water and the elder Winchester’s gentle, steady touches are enough. Dean moves slowly, clearly, gives clear indications of where he’s going to touch next, and Sam’s grateful for it, even if he can’t find the words. 

If he were maybe a little more in the moment, Sam might be embarrassed by having his brother bathe him, take care of him like he’s four years old all over again and doesn’t know the correct way to get himself clean. But being more in the moment requires brain power he doesn’t have, energy that’s been sapped out of him, and it risks the possibility of having the Devil return. So he doesn’t bother, doesn’t even try to stay focused. He only dimly notes a dull pain on his abdomen and his hands as Dean washes them, but it’s insignificant enough that he really doesn’t pay attention.

He only realizes that Dean is done when his brother moves away from the tub, speaking words that don’t quite register through the fog of his exhaustion. Sam blinks slow a few times, but then Dean is back with one of the off-white motel towels, rubbing it through the younger Winchester’s hair. 

“... you into some nice, dry clothes and outta the damn tub, yeah? This motel’s better than the last one; the beds are actually kinda soft, for a change. Can’t even feel the mattress springs or anything. Bet it’ll feel a helluva lot better than the bathtub, let you stretch those damn long legs out.”

Sam gives a sort of noncommittal hum, despite his sandpaper throat, and Dean moves the towel to his brother’s shoulders to give Sam a weak smile. 

“Yeah, can’t imagine this tub is super comfortable for you. Or for anyone.” Dean pats Sam’s chest dry before wrapping his hands around the younger’s shoulders. “Can you stand?”

If his throat didn’t hurt so much, Sam might’ve attempted some sort of sarcastic quip, maybe something about his legs not being broken. Just something to show Dean that he’s not that messed up, that he’s going to be okay and this was just… just a slip-up in his grip on reality. But he doesn’t do that, doesn’t do anything but give a slow nod and shift to get his feet under him. He relies a little too heavily on Dean, but the elder Winchester doesn’t complain, just supports Sam as he steps over the edge of the tub to stand on a yellowing bath mat. 

Sam’s relatively proud of the way he doesn’t even wobble when Dean lets go, standing on his own two feet. Dean moves, and Sam doesn’t really know what his brother is doing, only that he really doesn’t want Dean to go anywhere right now. He curls a hand into his brother’s dampened shirt, drawing a soft comment out of the older man that Sam doesn’t really hear as he glances sluggishly around the bathroom.

The bathroom door is wide open, caught in place simultaneously by the door handle stuck into the drywall and the curtain rod incidentally propping it open. The shower curtain itself is crumpled on the tile, ripped down with the rod still attached. Sam can easily imagine it: Dean bursting into the bathroom, slamming the door open in his panic, racing over to the shower and tearing the whole damn curtain down in his desperation to get to his little brother. He must’ve been a mess for Dean to have done this much damage to the room, especially considering how they really don’t have the money to not get their deposit back. 

“Sammy.” Dean’s voice is steady, gentle, but vaguely patronizing, like a parent trying to get instructions through to a small child. Sam has to blink a couple of times to get his eyes to focus, clearing his throat against the raw feeling. All he can give is a sort of hum of acknowledgment, but Dean seems satisfied enough. “You gotta let go of me, man. Gonna go get you some clean clothes, unless you wanna put these nasty things back on.”

Dean makes a vague gesture to the sink, to the crumpled heap of a shirt dangling off the edge, and Sam remembers, dimly, trying to scrub out some nasty stains maybe a day or two earlier. Or was it a few hours? Minutes?

He has to force himself to let go of Dean’s shirt, to ignore the slight nervousness that edges into his chest as Dean heads back out to the bedroom. Sam can’t seem to get his eyes off of the shirt in the sink, the stains he’s sure he can still see if he looks hard enough, off-yellow and red that’s surely sunk deep into the fabric by now.

“I tried to fix it,” Sam mumbles softly as Dean reenters the too-small bathroom, nose scrunching up a bit at the way his voice cracks. The elder Winchester’s eyebrow raises just slightly, and he follows Sam’s gaze to the doubtless ruined shirt. “Tried to get clean it up, but I couldn’t… I can’t… It’s not….”

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Dean squeezes his shoulder gently, pressing a clean pair of sweatpants into the taller man’s hands. “Don’t worry about it. We can work on it again tomorrow, okay?”

It’s just a shirt… Just a stupid shirt, and not something Sam has room in his brain to think about for now. Dean crouches down in front of him, and Sam forces his eyes to the top of his brother’s head, obediently picking up one leg and then the other so Dean can help him into clean boxers, then relinquishing his hold on the sweatpants for Dean to help with those too. 

And then Dean is standing and guiding him to sit down on the toilet seat, warm hands on his shoulders, and soft words of, “Can you sit down real quick? Gotta get those covered before you get to bed.” 

Sam can feel his eyebrows scrunch together with confusion even as he sits with Dean’s guidance. Covered..? 

Only then does a dull pain register, on his abdomen and chest and both palms, and panic creeps into the back of his mind- how much of this was real, something had to be real or it wouldn’t hurt, it was real  _ you never got out, Sammy, you’re still trapped in the Cage, with me _ \- before he realizes that Dean is calm. Dean isn’t panicking, and if  _ Dean _ isn’t freaked, then Sam shouldn’t be either, right?

He looks down to investigate, some part of him bracing to see his intestines spilling out onto the floor, but there’s just a couple of scratches. They aren’t even deep enough to bleed, really; only deep enough that the first layer or so of skin is gone and it stings from the exposure to air.

Dean’s hands are there, then, taping a large band-aid over the painful areas, and then they’re gone.

“I.. I didn’t… I don’t remember. I didn’t do that.”

Dean has this sad look in his eyes, a deep tiredness and a sort of resignation that Sam can’t place as he reaches up to squeeze his little brother’s shoulder. “I know, Sammy. You don’t gotta explain it to me.”

Except he feels like he does, like he needs Dean to understand that he’s not intentionally removing layers of skin, but he doesn’t have the words, doesn’t have the willpower to exacerbate the stinging in his throat in an attempt to croak out some sort of explanation he doesn’t have. 

Dean wraps gentle hands around Sam’s wrists and pulls them up to inspect them, silently prodding at the little half-moons on his palms. Sam thinks maybe they were bleeding at one point, since they’re deeper than the other scratches, but Dean doesn’t bandage over them. Maybe he remembers how Sam used to just rip off band-aids on his hands when he was little so they wouldn’t restrict his movement. He’s pretty sure he’d do that now too. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Dean says finally, like some sort of verdict on the whole situation. Like somehow, his words alone will make all of this miraculously ‘fine.’ “Nothin’ too deep. Should be scabbed over by the time you wake up tomorrow.”

Sam just sort of nods, curling his fingers into fists and looking up at Dean as he stands back up. He only gets to his feet with his brother’s prompting, following Dean out of the bathroom. His feet meet carpet, and he just stands there for a moment, looking around the room. It’s more or less identical to the countless other shitty motels they’ve stayed in over the years. Two queens, Dean’s up against the wall and closest to the door, his own against the opposite wall, with a pathetic excuse for a kitchen, their bags and guns spread out all over the table and floor. And no Lucifer. Nobody hiding in the bigger room, waiting for Sam. Nobody but his big brother.

“Here, Sammy.” Dean tugs an old, stretched out t-shirt over his head with little warning. Sam grimaces as damp hair sticks to his face but obediently stuffs his arms through the sleeves and accepts an open bottle of water from Dean, sipping on it slowly. It’s not quite cold, like Dean somehow just knows that Sam can’t handle cold things right now. Even though Sam’s pretty sure he’s never directly said anything about it. It’s just one of those things Dean  _ knows _ , he supposes. And there’s a lot of those.

Sam finishes half the water bottle before he puts it down and notices Dean, leaned up against the wall with his classic “worried big brother” expression. 

“You should get some sleep.”

The younger Winchester has a protest on the tip of his tongue. Some bull excuse about not being tired, or wanting to stay up. Or maybe even the truth, that he’s terrified to see what kind of terror Lucifer will cause while he tries to sleep, and that fear is enough to make him not even want to lay down.

_ You can’t do anything on your own, can you? Can’t even shower without needing someone to save you. _

Sam bites back bile as the Devil’s words pop into his mind, but Lucifer has a point. He’s going to let some stupid hallucinations completely remove his autonomy? Really? He can’t even go to bed without it being some sort of ridiculous crisis?

“C’mon, man. You’ll feel better. Give your body a break and everything.”

Sam nods and acquiesces, surrendering his water bottle to Dean’s open hand and climbing his way into bed and under the covers. Going to bed with damp hair isn’t really his favorite thing, but Dean is right about him needing sleep. He’s exhausted and heavy and probably couldn’t stay awake long enough to get his hair dry anyways. 

He closes his eyes and tries to relax into the surprisingly comfortable mattress, listening to the sounds of Dean getting ready for bed. The click of the lock snapping into place, the shuffling of his feet as he does some last minute tidying, the rustling as he changes out of his clothes and lays down.

Everything goes quiet, and Sam can feel eyes on his back, so he rolls over to face his brother, a questioning look on his face.

“You sure you’re good, Sam?”

It’s genuine concern, but Sam can’t help feeling like Dean thinks he’s some sort of fragile little kid who’s scared of the dark. And he’s not. “Yeah, Dean. I’m fine.”

“Alright. G’night, Sam.”

“Night, Dean.”

There’s a clicking noise from the lamp switch, and the room is plunged into darkness. Sam almost can’t tell the difference between having his eyes closed and open, aside from the soft glow of the bedside table clock and the occasional creeping of headlights across the curtains.

He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until now, how right Dean was, and now that he’s laying down in bed in the darkness, he feels like he just dug up a whole damn cemetery and took on a nest of vamps in one day. All from a witch hunt and a shower. Too many emotions well up over that, enough that Sam can’t separate a single one- and honestly, he doesn’t want to. He just wants to sleep, keep his heavy eyelids shut, give into the light, floating feeling of falling asleep.

And then there’s a hand, icy cold and crawling up under his shirt, over his chest.

Sam chokes on a breath, eyes flying open, and tries to kick at whoever’s hand that is. But his legs suddenly won’t move, none of him will, nothing will work to shove away the hands rucking up his shirt and the glowing red eyes staring back at him through the darkness.

“Whaddya say, Sam? Let’s give big brother a front row seat to the Cage.”

Cold fingers tuck under the edge of his waistband, and Sam gives a strangled cry of shock and panic as his pants start to slip down. And suddenly he can move again, and he kicks and hits and scrambles his way to press against the wall, eyes wide in shock.

Lucifer snaps, loud enough that Sam flinches in trepidation, but all he does is turn the lights on. The archangel is standing at the foot of his bed with a horrible grin on his face, all sharp angles and promised pain.

“Oh Sam… You know better than that.” Lucifer moves to crawl on the bed, and Sam is going to choke on his own heartbeat.

“Get away from me!” He gasps, backing himself into the corner. “No!”

The archangel pauses, eyes flaring red again. “No?” With a flick of his hand, Sam’s head is slammed into the wall, hard enough that his vision goes double and hazy for a few moments. “Don’t make me have to break you in again, you little bitch.”

Sam nearly gags and buries his face in his knees, shaking his head. It’s not real. It’s not real, he’s not real, he can’t be real, it’s not possible it’s not real, it’s not real-

“You wanna see not real? I’ll show you not real!”

Every muscle in Sam’s body tenses up, bracing for impact, for pain, to be torn to shreds, hands thrown above his head like it might protect him, might deter the Devil.

A strong grip catches his arm, and Sam sucks in a scream, flailing and desperately trying to break the hold, words he’s not even aware of leaving his mouth like it might do some good. His fighting is useless, because Lucifer is stronger, stronger than he’ll ever be, a weight next to him on the bed, a hand shoved past the measly defense that is his arms to cup his cheek.

“Stop! Stop, stop, please, p-please-!”

“Begging? Really? That’s pathetic, Sam. And you  _ know  _ how much I  _ hate _ it when you try to beg.”

A  _ warm _ hand on his cheek, warm like the fingers tightened around his wrist, like the body leaned over him, like the fearful voice calling his name loud enough that the Devil’s threats are drowned out. The hand on his arm moves up, far enough that strong fingers press against the scar on his palm, and Lucifer falls silent, his presence overpowered by the voice near Sam’s ear.

“..-mmy, please,  _ fuck _ , come on. Come on, don’t do this to me, come back. Sammy, please, I’m right here. I’m right here, man, come back to me. Please,  _ please _ .”

It sounds more like a prayer than anything, which is so out of character, but everything else is  _ Dean _ , absolutely Dean, Dean’s thumb rubbing against his scar, Dean’s fingers pulling his head out of his knees to try and get a reaction, a reassurance. Dean, so strong and solid and  _ real _ that Sam couldn’t ignore him even if he wanted to.

“Sam, c’mon, just look at me, just look at me, Sammy. You- You can’t... Please, Sammy, c’mon.”

Sam sucks in a deep breath to steel himself and peels his eyes open. Everything in front of him is Dean, pale with eyebrows scrunched together, teeth gritted, almost panting, eyes practically watering and more terrified than Sam has ever seen in his life.

And it’s so real, so raw, so vulnerable, too vulnerable to be anything but a true, authentic Dean.

His breath leaves him in a rush, and it’s everything he can do to keep from hyperventilating. This is twice in a night, twice he’s lost himself and forgotten and gotten stuck in his head, and he’s never been this bad. It’s only getting  _ worse _ , worse than he thinks, judging by the scared shitless look on Dean’s face. And if it keeps going like this, if  _ he _ keeps going like this… 

A sob bubbles up in his throat, and Sam chokes on it right as he throws himself against Dean’s shoulder. Strong arms instantly fold around him, wrap him in warmth and security, and Sam curls his fingers into Dean’s shirt and cries, cries so hard he shakes and his head hurts and his throat is raw. And Dean, Dean just holds onto him, slowly rocks them both back and forth. 

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you, Sammy. You’re safe, you hear me? You’re okay.”

Dean only has to push a bit to get them both lying down on the bed, keeps Sam tight against his chest, boxes his little brother in against the wall where nothing bad can get to him, another one of his big-brother-sixth-sense things that Sam will never understand. He just lays there, rubs his hands down Sam’s back like he doesn’t care about the tears soaking through his shirt.

It takes longer than he thinks it should, but Sam finally manages to quell his sobs into sniffles, pulls back a bit so he isn’t mashing his face into Dean’s shoulder.

“I-I… I can’t do this. I can’t take this, Dean.”

“Yes, you can.” Dean guides his chin up so their eyes can meet, calm green locking onto terrified hazel. “You’re gonna get through this. We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure something out.”

Sam can’t even pretend to buy into his brother’s optimism right now, eyes miserably falling shut. “Like what?”

“I dunno, but we will. Even if I have to go into Hell and kick Satan’s ass myself.”

This horrible, panicked whine leaves Sam’s throat, one the younger Winchester doesn’t even recognize, and his fingers clench into Dean’s shirt again. Dean would never be able to take on the Devil. He’d go down and get stuck, get trapped in the Cage, and Lucifer-

“Hey hey, hey, easy. Easy, Sam.” Dean kneads his fingers into the back of Sam’s neck, a sheepish little smirk on his face. “Bad taste on my part, yeah? Just relax. I won’t do anything like that, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

His hands move down to rub at Sam’s shoulders, slow, comforting, blessedly warm. He hums softly, rumbling the melody of Hey Jude against Sam’s ear, like he used to when they were kids. Like this is just some sickness, like a cold or a flu and Sam’s going to be all better in just a few days with some rest and soup...

In the morning, they’ll go back to pretending that nothing happened. Dean will pretend like Sam is okay enough to be hunting and he isn’t terrified for his little brother, and Sam will pretend like he isn’t clinging to sanity by his fingertips, and they’ll both pretend they didn’t have some chick flick moment in the middle of the night. But for now, Sam takes comfort in Dean’s warmth, the soft rumble of his voice, and falls asleep wrapped in Dean’s arms, trusting his big brother to take on the world. 


End file.
